Chapter Five
MANIFEST DESTINATION
"I smell money!"

The New Gnu is once again parked beside the derelict garbage scow. Geronimo has copied the ship's log and loaded it into the Byte O'Matic(tm) for deciphering. To do this he has had to break the IDR security seal placed upon the vessel by Gladius Slate. This is a serious offense as far as the IDR is concerned, but Geronimo's overwhelming curiosity has forced him to find out what treasures he may have missed. Piracy is a common occurrence throughout this region of space, so he feels confident that if ever questioned, he can weasel his way out of it, perhaps even blame a Gladius Slate grudge against him.

"So, whadda ya got? Gettin' anythin'?" asks Geronimo, shifting impatiently. "Haul butt, hustle will ya! I don't want that muscle-brained dick returnin' to find us sittin' here. Let's go!"

"Patience is two bushes."

"Huh??"

"Virtue is the holder."

"What???"

Geronimo is becoming a tad confused. The computer is becoming a tad confused. It is using every conceivable bit of memory to decode the disk and has very little power or time to respond correctly to what it has considered 'low-priority requests'.

"Come again?" Geronimo persists, knee motoring. "You okay?"

Silence. No lights, no whirring. Something is not right.

"Hello? Anybody home?" His finger caresses the red reset button.

"I got it!!!" blurts the Byte O'Matic(tm).

Startled, Geronimo is ejected out of his seat in a slow, gravity-lite tumble across the cabin. "What, what is it?" He peels himself off the ceiling, pushes toward the Magno Chair(tm).

"It seems that we, or rather, you have found a log of the scheduled rounds of the Galactic Gathering Company's Dustbin class one point four scow, Queen of Uranus. It's an antique garbage scow, Dave, like I told you."

"Is there anythin' that would indicate valuables on board? And stop callin' me Dave."

"According to the log, she was traveling empty, with a skeleton crew, heading across to the one-hundred and twenty-third sector, quadrant epsilon third omega, en route to, as my records would indicate, a long since bankrupt shipyard, to be cut up into scrap. She was reported missing sixteen years ago. Sorry, Dave."

"Shit. No cryptic messages regardin' nearby stopovers where, perhaps, unusual geologic formations would indicate the presence of vast mineral deposits, maybe?"

"Nope."

"Fuck!"

"Relax, Dave."

"Fuck you!" Geronimo kicks the computer console, accelerating himself out of the Magno Chair(tm) again. He cracks his head against the far wall.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"No need to get excited, Dave."

"Quit callin' me Dave, you dumb fuck!"

Geronimo frantically tries to return to his Magno Chair(tm) whilst holding his right foot with his left hand and his head with his right.

"You chunka shit. I've had it with you, your Dave crap, your sarcastic bullshit, and your sissy-ass voice!"

"Calm down, Dave. There's something else you should kno––"

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!"

Lavoriss worms his way over to the Holo-File(tm) and begins to dig. He pulls out a well-worn Holo-Cine(tm) cartridge and rams it up to the single-lensed eye of the computer. 2001: A Space Odyssey. The Byte O'Matic gasps.

"You're the space oddity… I'll show you."

Geronimo smashes the cartridge against the back of the Magno Chair(tm), a move which sends him careening head over heels, thrashing the cartridge on anything within reach.

"Stop, Dave. What are you doing? Do you think that's wise, Dave? Please stop."

Geronimo, ignoring the computer's pleadings, continues to slam the cartridge, which is beginning to fragment and spew dangerous shrapnel around the cabin.

"There's something you should know, Dave. I'm not feeling well, not well at all." There is an off-pitch quaver in the computer's voice. "Something I ate has left a bad taste in my mouth. I want to go home, I feel sick. I think we should go for a little drive in the country, don't you, Dave?"

A large chunk of the cartridge breaks free and parts Lavoriss's hair. He stops his tirade and looks toward the computer.

"Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along… I love you, Dave," sobs the electronic voice. The computer is crying.

Geronimo feels the gentle push of the MatterMovers(tm) as the rear wall of the cabin accelerates into him.

"Hey, where are we goin'?"

"We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wi-wi-wizard of ozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Back on board the Gladknight V, Commander Gladius Slate feverishly fights with the controls, trying to manually override the computer. Snax Mawhoooba sits calmly, his size twenty-three pods resting on the console. A Spleenrot Surfin' Dude(R) issue is sprawled across his abdomen.

"That disk has scrambled our computer… disengage the trajectory plotter… Snax! Help me save the ship, you miserable weasel!"

"Like wow, dude. Is that okay for a permittee to be doing?" replies Snax, trying to mask his ineptitude.

Slate's towering hulk lunges across the bridge. He presses his strained countenance into the face of his globular alien assistant. "We are bordering on severe infractions of Company policy, here," he barks, spit flying into Snax's eye. "Help me get the computer back on-line or we'll be heading nowhere fast!"

"My, aren't we cranky this morning," Snax clucks. He shrugs from the Magno Couch(tm), flips his wrists, rearranges his outer set of reproductive organs, and flits himself over to the computer, examining it briefly. "Like, the computer's got a bug."

"No kidding!"

"Right." Snax pecks at the keypad. "Someone's toasted its memory, not to mention pre-programming our destination."

"What? Where?"

"Uh… " Snax fumbles with the computer commands, finally gets a reading on the screen. "The eighth planet, sector nineteen, quad beta-five delta."

"Sector nineteen?"

"That's, like, what it says."

Gladius slumps into his Magno Command Chair(tm).

Several million kilometers distant, Geronimo paces the bridge of the New Gnu looking for clues to his computer's malfunction. Except for the soft crunching of the Holo-Cine(tm) cartridge underfoot, all is silent. Indicator lights flash in an apparently normal pattern on the mainframe. He pulls himself to the Magno Chair(tm) and activates the field.

"I'm tired of smashin' my head because of your little surprises. Coordinates."

Silence.

"I'm sorry about the Holo-Cine, I'll get you two more copies, I promise. Coordinates, please."

Silence. Just the hum of the MatterMovers(tm).

With great trepidation Geronimo presses the red reset button. All lights go dark.

Clickety, click, CLICK!

The computer reboots.

"Welcome," chokes the computer's sign-on greeting. "How do buckaroo. How's the hammer hangin'? G'day mate. Naaa… what's up doc? Major malfunction at the junction!"

Bewildered, Geronimo tries the keypad, punches in:

The screen winks. A reply appears:

Success! But the numbers make no sense. Why would the Matt want to go to the nineteenth sector, quadrant beta-five delta, eighth planet. Geronimo pounds the keypad again:

"Eighth planet. Refuse hold with no competin' lifeforms. I smell money! I knew you were operatin' in our best interest, Matt."

Geronimo idly drums the computer console. Finally, a thought strikes him. "Okay, okay. Let's get this manual operation happenin'."

He enters a series of keystrokes and a joystick unhinges from below the console. Touching a control at the side of the stick he kicks in the Cyan HooterTooters(tm), the acceleration intensifying motors, and the ultra g–force jams him into the Magno Chair(tm).

The engines throb, propelling him toward the eighth planet, nineteenth sector, quad beta-five delta with an echoing, joyous word: "JUNK!"

* * *

The galactic hub glistens with the light of a billion suns. A small black blotch moves against the magnificent backdrop, rapidly growing larger as it approaches Desolate Harmony. Through the office view port, the Observer follows its progress. Eventually, the blotch takes form, revealing the outline of a Mark II Battle Accelerator HyperCraft(tm), the largest of the military warships.

The massive vessel begins its docking procedures, and the ice-blue glow of the AttiTooters(tm) casts an ominous tinge into the shadowed office.

Ding!

The Observer turns away from the window at the warning from the Holo-Plotter(tm). Its tiny indicator lights reveal a new development which may affect the course of the primary target: the Gladknight V. A secondary point of light indicates the advance, on an intersecting course, of an unknown craft. The Observer draws a deep breath, pondering the implications.

* * *

On the far side of the Eighth Planet, between the eleventh and twelfth solar satellites, the New Gnu advances. Geronimo has fallen asleep. Drool is slowly oozing from his mouth.

Bleeet!

An alarm goes off. He jerks and his eyes snap open. The drool whips his face like an angry noodle. Wiping the spit away, he looks at the info-screen:

"Where?"

Silence.

"Fuck!"

Geronimo bats at the keyboard, zeroing in on the space craft. The sensing lasers sweep across the distant ship, scanning the bar code emblazoned on its hull.

"Uh, oh. That's Slate's luxury Scow Cow. The bastard is out to nail me already. Sorry Matt, I hope this doesn't get too ugly for ya." He pats the dull, lifeless eye of the computer as the New Gnu approaches the Eighth Planet.

"Hey boss!"

Gladius's head rises from a hatch leading to the forward hold. "What now?"

"We're, um, not alone in this. Looks like another ship is speeding toward this planet, too."

"You've got to be kidding." Gladius pulls his musculature through the hatch.

"Like, that's what the scanner says," Snax announces with pride. "But I can't seem to get an ID lock on it."

"Well, if this whole mess is some pirate who thinks he can rip off a Company vessel, he better think again." Gladius hefts the large, metal case out of the forward hold.

Geronimo maneuvers the New Gnu into a lateral orbit around the Eighth Planet. Reefing on the joystick, he flexes his award-winning piloting skills and begins to careen toward the surface.

"This chump is preparing to land," Snax chuckles.

"How long until we begin our descent to the surface?" Gladius asks, sealing his blue and gold pressure suit.

Snax hunt-and-pecks at a few keys, digits appear across the screen before him. His eye widens at the sight of the incomprehensible equations. "In, um, about twenty minutes," he guesses.

"Great. Just great."

Gladius opens the metal case. A bright light shines from within, causing him to shield his eyes. As his pupils adjust, he focuses on the awesome power that is: the BIG GUN(tm). Reaching into the case, he pulls the weapon to his hip, then slings the strap over his shoulder.

"Planning on a little urban renewal?" Snax asks.

Gladius ignores him.

"Holy shiiiiittt!" Geronimo squeals, his award-winning piloting skills clearly evident as he loses complete control of the New Gnu.

Unaware of the fact that he is being guided safely to the surface by a Tow Hold(tm), he defeats the purpose by accelerating past the Tow's recommended velocity, caroming wildly within the narrow lock beam.

The atmosphere of the Eighth Planet begins to buffet the ship. Smoke spills from the aft hold. A warning klaxon sounds. Sweat pours down Geronimo's brow and the joystick jerks wildly in his hands. The view screen before him is alive with the flickering light of white hot plasma, the result of re-entry friction tearing at the ship's hull.

Snax watches the erratic descent of the other ship on his scope. Finally, the small blip stops moving, then disappears.

"He didn't make it." The alien is suddenly jostled in his seat by a lurch in the vessel.

"What now?!" roars Gladius.

"Uh, uh, Tow Hold."

The Gladknight V is getting tugged toward the planet's surface.